


the street lamp said,

by timeisweird



Series: snapshots [8]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Dissociation, Dr Nyarlathotep, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Identity Issues, Inspired by Poetry, Mind Manipulation, Nonbinary Character, One Shot, Psychological Horror, Suspense, Time Lords Are Aliens, Virtual Reality, an awful amount of pointless references to the eu, having people ignore your proper name is trans culture, i wrote this in a day please dont hate me, with plenty of pretentiousness for seasoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 17:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeisweird/pseuds/timeisweird
Summary: They keep reminding everyone to call them the Doctor; everyone seems to insist on calling them Dr. James McCrimmon. There’s one red-haired woman who gets it right every time without them even needing to ask, thoughsheseems to insist on some rather bizarre things about the current state of reality. The System says they need to focus on what’s in front of them and to not worry about distractions like her.The Doctor’s not sure who or what to believe.





	the street lamp said,

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stcrmpilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/gifts).



> heavy warning for, well, dissociation, identity issues, not being grounded in reality / sure that you're in reality at all. mind the tags!! 
> 
> the stanzas interspersed between scenes are all from _rhapsody on a windy night_ by t.s eliot. the title is from that poem as well.

ALERT: NEW UPLOAD. INTEGRATION PENDING... AWAITING SECURITY SCAN.

SECURITY SCAN COMPLETED. DISPLAYING CURRENT PROFILE…

> MAIN DESIGNATION: The Doctor  
>  AUXILIARY DESIGNATIONS: John Smith, Time Lord, Space man, Center of the Spiral Politic, Thief, N̞̊y̢̰̝̩͑̐̆͡ȁ̦͇͙͓̒̔͠r͔͕̞͕̿͊̔̒͝ͅľ̮a̡͕̜̻͓͂̾̽́͘t̘̰̜̙̔̍̔͌ḫ̨̜̻̈́̍̈̚̕͜o̘̊t̟́e̫̻͒͛p̲̣̑̒, Bambi, Johann Schmidt, Skipper, James McCrimmon… CLICK TO SEE MORE
> 
> OCCUPATION: Unemployed
> 
> AGE: Unknown
> 
> FAMILY: Deceased
> 
> RESIDENCE: The TARDIS  
>  AUXILIARY RESIDENCES: Galactic Coordinates 58044 684884, Sector 8023, Third Quadrant of the Milky Way galaxy, locally referred to as Earth.  
>  FORMER RESIDENCES: Galactic Coordinates 10-0-11-00:02, in the constellation of Kasterborous, locally referred to as Gallifrey.
> 
> INTERESTS: Travel, Repression, Stargazing, Timeship Repairs, Reading, Running for Survival, Drawing, Self-loathing, Risk-taking, Punk, Rockabilly (minor)... CLICK TO SEE MORE

PROFILE ACCEPTED. BACKING UP DATA… PROFILE INCOMPATIBLE WITH CURRENT OPERATING SYSTEM. GENERATING COMPATIBLE PROFILE…

> MAIN DESIGNATION: Doctor James McCrimmon  
>  AUXILIARY DESIGNATIONS: Jamie
> 
> OCCUPATION: Head Researcher of Colonization Processes, in the Department of Exploration.
> 
> AGE: Approximately 35 years
> 
> FAMILY: Deceased
> 
> RESIDENCE: Flat 25, Pallant House, HJ1 KP9, Asteria Colony, Europa.
> 
> INTERESTS: Travel, Repression, Stargazing, Work-related Research, Reading, Exercising, Drawing, Self-loathing, Exploring unknowns, Punk, Rockabilly (minor)... CLICK TO SEE MORE

SYSTEM CHECK IN PROGRESS… SYSTEM CHECK COMPLETED. PROFILE ACCEPTED.

INSTALLING NEW PROFILE… INITIATING UPLOAD…

3…

2…

1…

INTEGRATING...

 _Twelve o'clock._  
_Along the reaches of the street_  
_Held in a lunar synthesis,_  
_Whispering lunar incantations_  
_Dissolve the floors of memory_  
_And all its clear relations,_  
_Its divisions and precisions,_  
_Every street lamp that I pass_  
_Beats like a fatalistic drum,_  
_And through the spaces of the dark_  
_Midnight shakes the memory_ _  
_ _As a madman shakes a dead geranium._

  
System integration _hurts,_ they find. The technician installing the implant said it would only be a pinch above their left ear as it’s installed, but ze failed to mention that establishing the neural connection to the System would _sizzle_ in their mind.

Dr. McCrimmon flinches in the reclined chair, grimacing at the sensation. The technician looks at them, not very concerned when ze asks, “You alright there?”

“Yeah, just – wasn’t expecting it,” they say through gritted teeth, finally relaxing when the burn starts to fade.

“The System takes some time to get acclimated and finalize the connection,” ze continues, poking at the implant with that sharp little tool of zirs. They resist the urge to tell zem to _stop._ “So if you feel anything… weird, for a day or two, that’ll be it.”

“Weird… how?” they ask, distracted by the sudden appearance of text in front of them, a system log rolling across their vision. _System connection established, beginning installation of necessary programs, do not disconnect during this time…_ is all that they manage to make out. They blink, and the text vanishes. There’s still a quiet hum in their mind, evidence of a digital presence working in the background.

“Numbness, nerve pain, dizziness, migraines, a distinct feeling of being disconnected from reality or that you’re in a simulation,, nausea,” ze lists off, a well-memorized list. Ze must do tons of these procedures as the colony’s population grows. It’s mandatory for long-term residence, after all. “Oh, and sometimes there’ll be this weird pop in your head, like your ears are popping, except that they aren’t.” Ze pauses, considering. “Or maybe that was just me.”

“No swimming for thirty minutes?” they ask jokingly, and manage to get a laugh out of the technician.

“Yeah,” ze says. “Sure, we can add that to the list.”

 _Half-past one,_  
_The street lamp sputtered,_  
_The street lamp muttered,_  
_The street lamp said, "Regard that woman_  
_Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door_  
_Which opens on her like a grin._  
_You see the border of her dress_  
_Is torn and stained with sand,_  
_And you see the corner of her eye  
_ _Twists like a crooked pin."_

  
It takes some adjustment, but that’s just a fact of life, really. Everything’s always changing. They adjust to their new flat, to their new job at a lab that’s ten minutes by shuttle away from said new flat. They keep being late to work and to meetings, though, which gets them into a bit of trouble with the shareholders. But the shareholders (and their coworkers) have been forgiving enough, since they’re still considered a new arrival.

But it isn’t long until Dr. McCrimmon’s able to get from their flat to their lab to a few of the shops nearby without navigational assistance from the System. Which is for the best really. The visual display is handy, but they don’t fancy having to ask how to get back home every time because they’ll get lost, or get distracted and end up in a back alleyway with someone’s outdoor cat hissing at them.

Before they left the integration center, they had asked their technician if there was anything they had to do to call the System up, or if there was any sort of maintenance, care, warnings, etc., that they should watch for. Turns out she’s maintained constantly and remotely by a team of computer engineers and A.I technicians. It also turns out that the System is universally called ‘she’ by the locals.

They find that there’s a coffee shop only a short walk from their lab, which they thought would be a gods-send on the day they’ve got a meeting with the head shareholder and accidentally didn’t sleep at all the night before due to being completely absorbed in some astronomy book they found in the archives. That was a rough meeting. Nearly fell asleep mid sentence. They don’t recall ever being that tired, actually. The caffeine only really kicked in afterwards.

Other than that, within a reasonable distance of their flat, they’ve got everything they need to be self-sufficient in their new residence. The colony was designed like that, after all. No one’s too far away from what they need.

 _The memory throws up high and dry_  
_A crowd of twisted things;_  
_A twisted branch upon the beach_  
_Eaten smooth, and polished_  
_As if the world gave up_  
_The secret of its skeleton,_  
_Stiff and white._  
_A broken spring in a factory yard,_  
_Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left  
_ _Hard and curled and ready to snap._

  
They bump into a woman when they’re rushing to work to try and get there before the System sends an automatic message to tell their co-workers they’ll be late (again). They blurt out a bunch of apologies as the two of them smack shoulders, and they almost drop all the files they had brought home because they couldn’t stop thinking about this project of theirs and figured they might as well keep on thinking.

They’re about to just keep on going, they want to _run_ and enjoy the feeling as much as they can over the urge to avoid another tardy message being sent, but then the woman calls out, “Doctor!” and they screech to a halt, looking back.

They struggle to catch their breath, and blink at the woman. She’s shorter then them, strong red-hair and vivid green eyes that look at them like they’re everything she’s been looking for. They don’t know how they know that.

“I… hi?” they try.

“Doctor,” she says again, sounding ecstatic. “Great! I found you, now come on, you need to ditch this place.”

They take a step back. “Excuse me? You mean Asteria? I just got here.”

Her face falls. “Wait… what?”

“Well, it’s been a few weeks,” they admit. “But it still feels like I just got here, why would I leave now–?”

“You – your ship said–” She fumbles with her words. “It’s _not_ real, Doctor,” is what she settles on, though it makes absolutely no sense to them anyway.

They know they’ll regret asking, regret humoring this woman further. Still, they ask, “What’s not real?”

“This place, the whole colony, whoever the hell you think you are,” she says, then stops, suddenly looking rather pale. “Oh, Christ, I gotta – I’ll – We’ll try this again, Doctor, just hold on.” And with that, she’s turning and running off, leaving them just as quickly as she stumbled into their day.

They’re left feeling rather like they’ve just gone through a food processor, staring out at the pedestrians walking around them. There’s not enough people that they shouldn’t be able to watch her run off, but they find that they lose sight of her very quickly regardless.

Dr. McCrimmon doesn’t know what to think. About what she was saying, what she might have gone on to say. They know who they are, they know where they are. They can feel the concrete beneath their shoes, and the clothes on their back, and the temperature of the cool air around them. They don’t feel… _un_ real.

 _Hello, Dr. McCrimmon,_ comes the System’s friendly voice. _I sent a message to your co-workers to tell them that you will be late._

They let out a defeated sigh, adjust their grip on their files, and start walking.

 _Half-past two,_  
_The street lamp said,_  
_"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,_  
_Slips out its tongue_  
_And devours a morsel of rancid butter."_  
_So the hand of a child, automatic,_  
_Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.  
_ _I could see nothing behind that child's eye._

  
“Uh, System?” they call out, one day on their walk to the lab. Their walk talks them through the gardens, an area of the colony designed to help citizens keep touch with their version of nature. Therapeutic, the botanists say. Currently, they’re in a recreation of a classic Nudorean forest, complete with tall fungi and fluttering insects.

The System’s presence seeps into their perception. _Yes, Dr. McCrimmon?_

“Yeah… About that,” they start. “Could you – not call me McCrimmon? Or James, or… any of that.”

There’s a pause. _James McCrimmon is your name, though._

“I – I mean, yeah, I guess it is, but–” They swat at an insect that dared to fly too close to their face. “I rather like just… the Doctor.”

 _Just the Doctor?_ The System repeats, and though she’s only an artificial intelligence interface designed to guide citizens in their assignments and around the colony, she almost sounds surprised. _I don’t understand._

They can’t help but gesture with their words as they try to explain. “Well, you know, rather than saying, ‘ _yes, Dr. McCrimmon?’_ You’d just say, ‘ _yes Doctor?_ ’ and if someone was talking about me, I guess they’d just say, ‘the Doctor is walking through the gardens,’ rather than saying my surname with it.”

There’s a feeling of data and computation and possibilities in the back of their head, and it’s not their own. _I will make a note of it,_ the System says, but the Doctor gets the sense that she’s not very enthusiastic about it. They wonder how that works.

 _I have seen eyes in the street_  
_Trying to peer through lighted shutters,_  
_And a crab one afternoon in a pool,_  
_An old crab with barnacles on his back,  
_ _Gripped the end of a stick which I held him._

  
Today’s an off-day for the café near their lab. Not that the café’s closed, but that the queue is long, orders are getting out slow, and the Doctor’s been waiting for five minutes to even get a chance to ask for a mocha. Never a fun way to start the morning, but they’ve been craving a coffee for a while, and well, they’re too far in now. Might as well wait.

Something catches their eye, and they glance behind them to see a red-haired woman waiting in the queue with them, standing just a little bit too close for comfort. She’s looking right at them, as if waiting for them to notice her.

They blink, and then they recognize her. “Oh! It’s you, hello. I didn’t know you lived around this sector.”

“I don’t,” she says bluntly. “And my name’s Donna, not ‘you.’”

“Oh,” they say. “Then why–”

She interrupts them. “Doctor, listen to me,” and they’re already listening, they thought. “Remember what I was talking about before? This whole thing, it’s – It’s like the Library.”

“This is a coffee shop…” they tell her, trying to be discreet as so not to embarrass her in front of the other customers. To further their efforts in not embarrassing her, they refrain from telling her that they don’t remember much about their last conversation. “Not a library.”

“No, I mean – augh, yes, this is a coffee shop,” she concedes, “but it’s a _fake_ coffee shop. It’s a simulation.”

The barista calls out, “Next customer?” and the Doctor looks to them and realizes that they’re referring to them.

“Ah, just a mocha,” they tell them, and run their wrist under the scanner to pay. Then they look back to the woman, keeping their voice low though she doesn’t seem to care, “Doesn’t seem simulated to me.” Suddenly they’re concerned for her. “Are you feeling unwell? You should tell the System and–”

 _“No!”_ she blurts, and they think she looks a bit fatigued, a bit ill at the thought. “No, I’m not – I’m not gonna do that. It’s – it’s _virtual reality_ , Doctor, and we need to get you out of here–”

They can’t help but roll their eyes. “Oh, not this again.”

That sets her off. “Oh, ‘not this again’?” she snaps, then gestures to the rest of the customers who pay her no mind. “Can you see how no one else is looking at me? No one’s even _noticed_ me, Doctor, and it’s cause right now _I’m_ just a shitty hologram that’s been shoved into this simulation by _your_ ship so that I can try to help _you.”_ She’s stepped forward to jab her finger into their chest with every emphasis. “And it’s sort of uncomfortable, and kind of hurts my head, so I’d really appreciate it if you could just–”

“One mocha?” the barista calls out just then, and the Doctor holds up a finger to the woman, a gesture to let her know that they’ll be right with her.

They thank the barista as they grab their coffee. Then they’re already saying, “Now, I’ve got a lot of stuff in the works, I’m sure you know how it is, I just don’t think I have the time to waste,” as they turn back to her.

But she’s gone. The Doctor glances around, but can’t find any trace or sight of the woman with the red hair. They try to recall what she was saying, something about the customers in the queue not being focused.

The System chimes. _All colony citizens have many important and valued projects. They’re likely focused on those, as you should be as well._

Right. Busy day. Wouldn’t do to loiter. They sip their coffee and get moving.

 _Half-past three,_  
_The lamp sputtered,  
_ _The lamp muttered in the dark._

  
The archives are one of the few areas of the colony that the Doctor’s known to be anything less than clean and sterile and orderly. Probably on account of how they’re the main patron of these rooms. The lights are always dimmed, and it smells musty, like the age of the papers and files and books have filtered into the air itself.

Currently, their arms are filled with a few of these files. Last minute research and gathering of materials for a presentation. Nothing unusual for them, and nothing unusual for their assistant, either. Zere’s a new arrival to the colony, but he’s been adjusting well to the change, the Doctor thinks. As well as the System integration. It gave _them_ one hell of a headache, when it was their go.

He’s especially gotten used to the… quirks of the way the Doctor likes to go about their responsibilities. Which is why he’s helping them dig through the archives for these materials without question or anxiety. They’ve got a process with these sort of things.

“Hey, Dr. McCrimmon,” he says. “I think I found another good one – fuel data from the last supply drop.”

The Doctor thinks that he’s right, sounds vaguely relevant and helpful enough that they’d be able to work it into the presentation at some point. “Toss it here,” they say, as they examine a few sheets they had spread out earlier, rethinking their decision that the blueprints wouldn’t be necessary.

And then they’re being hit in the back of the head by a file, and turning around just in time to watch the file’s contents fall to cover the floor. Zere turns around to see this as well. The Doctor looks at their assistant and asks, “What’d you do that for?”

Zere shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I – you said to toss it to you, and–”

“Well, yeah, but–” they frown, looking down at the papers on the floor again, feeling the weight of the books and files in their arms.

“–I didn’t see that you had your hands full,” their assistant continues, before he bends down to start gathering the papers. “Sorry about that.”

The Doctor doesn’t move, left staring down at the mess as they they ask themself _why couldn't I catch it?_ as if surprised by the lack of more limbs to hold everything they want. But that suddenly seems trivial when they see that the papers Zere’s picking up are… blank. Weren’t they supposed to be data spreadsheets, why would they be–

 _Your presentation begins in 15 minutes, Dr. McCrimmon,_ a gentle voice says in the back of their head, accompanied by a typed pop-up on their retinal display. The System offers an option to show directions to the meeting room, if needed. _It would be best if you finished your work in the archives soon._

Ah, right. Wouldn’t do to be late, they’re already making up the whole thing on the fly. They set their books and files down on a pile of other books and files that’s on a table next to them, and move to help their assistant. “I think we’re both just tired,” they offer in light conversation.

Zere chuckles. “And stressed, yeah.”

 _The lamp hummed:_  
_"Regard the moon,_  
_La lune ne garde aucune rancune,_  
_She winks a feeble eye,_  
_She smiles into corners._  
_She smoothes the hair of the grass._  
_The moon has lost her memory._  
_A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,_  
_Her hand twists a paper rose,_  
_That smells of dust and old Cologne._  
_She is alone_  
_With all the old nocturnal smells  
_ _That cross and cross across her brain."_

  
The Doctor shrugs on their white lab coat, standing in front of the long mirror they keep in the living room of their flat. They hum a tune as they preen their hair, swaying slightly to watch their coat swish with the motion.

 _You probably should leave that in your lab, next time,_ the System says suddenly. _Lab coats are considered lab equipment, after all, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about what would happen if you lost it._

They hum in consideration, and then say, “Nah, I like having it. Do you think they’d have one in brown, actually?”

_A brown lab coat?_

“Yeah,” the Doctor says. “You know. Long brown coat. I think it’d look better.”

 _Lab coats are for protection and identification of citizens working in laboratories or research facilities,_ the System says. _And white is traditional, and more professional._

The Doctor sees their face frown in the mirror, but before they can say anything, their comm rings. Their frown deepens. Some part of them isn’t sure why they wear a comm on their wrist at all, reminds them too much of a wrist-watch that they don’t need, but then again, it’s standard for colony communication. If a bit annoying at times.

They tap to accept the call, say, “Hello–?”

 _“Doctor, hi,”_ comes a woman’s voice, and it takes them a very long second to realize why it sounds so familiar. They’re getting a bit irritated by this, really.

They almost ask how she’s calling them, but that’s not really a question that needs answering anymore, so they ask, “Why are you calling me? It’s not like we have any projects together. Unless something’s come up and we suddenly _do,_ I don’t have time to chat–”

 _“But something_ has _come up,”_ she interrupts. _“I need to ask you a few questions – it’s a survey for uh… the department that’s in charge of construction.”_

She doesn’t sound very sure of herself. “The Department of Infrastructure?” they correct.

 _“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I – Listen,”_ she says, sounding a bit hurried. _“What’s the pattern on your wallpaper, what’s it look like?”_

“The pattern on my _wallpaper?”_ they repeat, and they wonder what the hell kind of question is that for a survey, but then there’s the System reminding them that the Department of Infrastructure is a valued department, even if they don’t see it that way.

They sigh, frustrated, and look at the wall behind them through the mirror in front of them. “It’s, uh – sort of sharp, geometric shapes? Grey lines on a white background.” And then they ask their own question, “As a participant, am I allowed to ask the purpose of this survey…?”

 _“No,”_ she says curtly. _“Okay, and I want you to look away from the wall, wait a second, then look again.”_

They do. And they say, “Oh.”

 _“Yeah?”_ she presses. _“Why, ‘Oh’?”_

The Doctor fumbles with their words. “Ah, it’s just, I thought–” The System pings them, some message about running system checks, the alert briefly drawing their gaze. They look back to the wall. “It’s just, circles and lines, all sort of intertwined and mixed up. Grey lines on a white background.” And then they ask their own question, “As a participant, am I allowed to ask the purpose of this survey…?”

 _“You just asked that,”_ she says.

“I – No, I didn’t…?” Their face looks confused in the mirror.

 _“Yes, you did,”_ she says again, abrasive as sandpaper. _“You said, it looks like sharp geometric shapes, then you asked me why. Then I told you to check again. You said, it looks like circles and lines, then you asked me why.”_

“I did _not_ say any of that! I’m looking at my wallpaper right now, and it’s quite clearly waves and squiggles,” they say tersely, trying their best to not shout. “Do you think I’m lying to you? Why would I lie in a survey about _wallpaper_ from the damned Department of Infrastructure?”

There’s a frustrated groan on the other end. _“For_ Christ’s sake _, Doctor! That’s a reality check, it’s a reality – you’re in a simulation, the whole thing’s a simulation. Like a lucid dream, except you’re far from lucid. I’ve been_ trying _to get you to–”_

Her voice cuts out. There’s a notification that the call dropped, right as the System completes its system checks. Another message cheerfully pops up in their vision: _Everything is now functioning properly!_

They feel a bit dazed, the world gone fuzzy and distant. Their reflection in the mirror is far from grounding, a pale straw man of what they’re supposed to be. Flat, three-dimensional (and why isn’t that enough?). Far from lucid.

 _Are you feeling alright, Dr. McCrimmon?_ The System asks them, her voice sweet, soothing.

“I don’t... Know,” they answer honestly, voice soft.

_Perhaps you should stop by the med-bay, on your way to the lab. You will be late again, but I can alert your coworkers._

Her voice is very nearly monotonous, practiced rises and dips in her tone that never go too far to one extreme or the other. It’s comforting, familiar almost. They feel more grounded already, the weight of their lab coat on their shoulders just heavy enough to be calming.

“I… Yeah, yeah, I will.” They let out a breath. “Thanks, System.”

 _The reminiscence comes_  
_Of sunless dry geraniums_  
_And dust in crevices,_  
_Smells of chestnuts in the streets,_  
_And female smells in shuttered rooms,_  
_And cigarettes in corridors  
_ _And cocktail smells in bars_

  
A colleague waves and shouts “James!” when she sees the Doctor walk into the pub, drawing their attention to where she’s sitting with a group of familiar coworkers and people they’ve come to regard as something like friends.

They wave back and make their way over to her through the crowded pub. The place is loud and smells like alcohol and greasy pub foods, and they’re already thinking that they won’t stay for that long. But they were invited out, and they ought to make an appearance. Maybe it’ll be fun, anyway.

And then it’s three pints later, and they aren’t really thinking about how just slightly overwhelming this pub is. Instead they feel awkward and uncomfortable around their colleagues in a way they haven’t known themself to be. Uncertain, lost, like they’re somewhere unfamiliar without a clue on how to get around and no map to guide them.

They’re sure they’ve been in situations like this before, is the strange thing. They remember strolling through marketplaces in strange places, sipping on foamy drinks with – with – they aren’t sure, but someone else was – is – will be there. Or maybe they’re remembering it in the wrong order. Surely they shouldn’t be feeling this disoriented. Maybe it’s the booze.

The Doctor looks at their pint, then looks to their coworker sitting next to them. “D’you know if there’s ginger in this?” they ask, feeling like they messed up a few words but got it out alright.

“Uh, why?” A concerned look crosses their coworker’s face. “Are you allergic or something?”

“No, I don’t _think_ so,” they say, and that doesn’t help the concerned look but they keep going. “I just don’t remember getting this tipsy from three pints.”

Their coworker shrugs. “You’re just a lightweight, what else is there to remember?”

That sounds somewhat plausible. It doesn’t help the sick feeling in their stomach, like something’s wrong and they can’t quite remember it, or grasp it. They feel like – like rather than the clamor and talking and laughter from people they rarely talk to more than they have to and only ever about projects at work – rather than all that, they’d really like to be somewhere new and exciting, with a hand to hold belonging to a person who loves to hear them talk but isn’t afraid to knock them down a peg if necessary.

The Doctor doesn’t know who they’re thinking of, if that person is real at all.

They push their chair away from the table, standing up just as suddenly. The conversation immediately around them shudders to a halt, and someone asks if they’re feeling alright. They wave a hand dismissively. “‘S just, thinking I’ll turn in early.”

Their colleagues seem a bit confused and a little concerned, but not enough to make them reconsider how they walk away then and leave the pub. They find their way home with the guiding text and helpful, clear visuals of the System.

 _The lamp said,_  
_"Four o'clock,_  
_Here is the number on the door._  
_Memory!_  
_You have the key,_  
_The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,_  
_Mount._  
_The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,  
_ _Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."_

  
It’s late at night. Or early in the morning. Depends on how you want to think about it, really.

The Doctor’s drinking tea in their front room. The windows are dark, the view outside illuminated only by the ghostly shimmer of the colony’s outer force-field keeping the atmosphere in, and a street lamp at the end of the road. They check their watch, and find that their guess was wrong. Five hours until they’ve got to be at the lab.

It should be calming. It should be relaxing. They should feel at ease in their seat, in their pajamas, in their flat.

It isn’t. They don’t.

In the back of their head is the ever-present hum of the System, working in the background to keep everything operating smoothly. They find themself trying to sink into that feeling, that bond, searching for a bit of comfort from the A.I in their head. It doesn’t feel the same. (And what is _that_ supposed to mean?)

That is, until she speaks.

 _Doctor?_ the System asks.

Their head snaps up, breaking the staring contest they were having with their tea. “Uh, yes?”

 _You alright?_ Her voice is soft, friendly, calming, familiar. Everything the System has always been since integration. But something’s out of place.

They don’t know how to respond to that, for some reason. “You sound different,” they say. “Are you sure _you’re_ alright? Do you need to run diagnostics, or have the engineers–”

 _I’m fine, Doctor. I – Well, I’ll be fine,_ the System says. _I’m just tired, and my head hurts, and I’ve been getting a bit, a lot frustrated, but you can hear me now, right? Like this?_

They nod. “I can hear you, yeah. Like always. Is something wrong?”

_I… Not exactly, but listen–_

“I’m listening,” they say automatically.

 _No, like, actually_ listen. I – _I’m sorry, Doctor._ It sounds like she’s apologizing for a lot more than a change of voice and tone. _It might… hurt to hear, like this._

And she starts talking, and they can’t quite process the words. The world’s taken on that odd fuzzy quality again. They can’t quite feel their hands, and for a moment, they worry that they’ll drop their tea, until they can’t really focus on that at all.

They shut their eyes against the feeling. Unreality at its finest, making them dizzy, making them _think._ The System’s neural connection sizzles and burns and smolders. They don’t understand it. They don’t understand the room around them, their flat, their name, what they’ve been doing all these months, they don’t understand anything.

They lift up a hand to press their palm against their eye, only to abruptly find that they’re actually lying down, and that their arm hasn’t moved at all.

The Doctor opens their eyes, blinking against bright fluorescent lights set into the ceiling above them. Their head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton, and it takes them a moment to realize they should probably sit up.

The room around them is like the lights. White, sterile, bright, giving nowhere to hide. There’s other people besides them lying down in bland looking beds, wires and electrodes on their temples, fast asleep. They lift up a semi-numb hand to find electrodes on their temples, as well. They tug them off and let them fall to the side.

“I… Donna?” they call out, their voice raspy. They cough, trying to clear their throat, but it doesn’t help.

Unreality. Straw men and facades. Simulations. The memories filter back in through the cotton slowly, but it feels vague and shallow, like a dream they’ve already begun to forget. But maybe that’s for the best.

What they do know right now, the Doctor thinks as they swing their legs over the side of the bed and stand up, keeping a hand out to catch themself if they stumble, is that they’re alone in a room full of people living in a virtual reality, there’s a door they can see that leads to a corridor and beyond, and that Donna’s probably somewhere out there.

They’ve got to get moving. They’ve been idle for too long now.

_The last twist of the knife._

**Author's Note:**

> find on me on tumblr @ [timeisweird!](https://timeisweird.tumblr.com/)


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